


no fool's mate

by firewoodfigs



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Study, Chess, Childhood Trauma, Drug Abuse, F/M, Female Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Period-Typical Sexism, Rivalry, Slow Burn, largely based off the queen's gambit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28868193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewoodfigs/pseuds/firewoodfigs
Summary: Genius comes at a cost - a cost that might just be far too much for Riza to pay.Inspired by The Queen's Gambit.
Relationships: Rebecca Catalina & Riza Hawkeye, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 18
Kudos: 32





	1. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _fool's mate / fuːlz meɪt / noun. chess. a checkmate achieved by Black's second move: the quickest possible mate_

♕

 **prologue.**

As a child, Riza’s mother had always told her that being a woman was difficult. 

Terribly difficult, and downright terrible.

“Being born a woman is one of life’s greatest curses,” her mother would say as she patched torn pieces of fabric with mutually disagreeable patterns together, stitching furiously as if her entire life depended on it. “It’s like being a second-class citizen from birth. No rights, no say, no nothing.” 

Riza would nod obediently as she listened, bitterness growing with every passing second like an exploding fruit. Still, she’d quickly learnt that her mother wasn’t usually searching for a response when she was in one of these moods. All she was looking for was a listening ear, really. A brick wall or two, a quiet doll. A good girl who would listen, nod at the appropriate moments, and stare at her as if she held all of the world’s wisdom in her hands, calloused from soap and detergent and the fleeting stings of an old, rusted needle.

“It’s terrible,” she would continue. “Downright terrible.” A heavy silence would reign. Her mother would chuck the mangled bits of cloth down on the loveseat, lamenting about the downsides of love. “As if the only thing we’re made for is romance. Love and cooing and cuddling, like some stupid toy, some silly little teddy left to rot by a baby’s cot.” 

At the tender age of seven, Riza didn’t quite understand what was so bad about it. Teddy bears were adorable. The only one she had - Mr. Knighty - was all torn and tattered, one beady, black eye dangling precariously as a tuft of frayed cotton erupted from his ear. Riza still thought he was cute, nonetheless. He kept her company through the darkest nights. He was always there when she had a nightmare. And she could tell all her secrets to him, without fear that he’d expose or betray her. He was nice. A companion that kept her safe. Made her feel safe. 

Riza would offer a miserable shrug in return. (She didn’t have much to say. Couldn’t say much, anyway.)

“You’re great, mommy.” 

Her mother would huff, sigh, then light a cigarette. Riza hated the smell of it, but it seemed to make her mother happy, so she tolerated it without so much as a single complaint like the good girl she was. 

“Of course I am. I raised you single handedly, you know.” 

Smoke billowed out of her blackened teeth and shrouded her deep, dark circles in grey, foul-smelling clouds. It rose upwards, reaching towards their ceiling — all peeling paint and leaking pipes. 

A tiny droplet plopped on her head. 

Riza shifted to the left, swinging her legs as she clasped at her knobbly knees. She watched the shadows lengthen, dragging out like an elastic band before it snapped. Receding back into nothingness. Then it grew again, longer and darker. Following her around wherever she went. 

Another cough, another puff. 

Another cloud clamouring towards her. 

Riza coughed, swatting the smoke away subtly with a small wave. Once it cleared, she turned to the shiny rock on her fourth finger curiously as her mother waved the brown stick in the air like it was a magic wand. Miss Eliot had mentioned earlier that day that a ring there was called a wedding ring. It meant that a woman was bound to a man. Duty bound. Spellbound by love. The possibilities were endless. Miss Eliot had sighed dreamily as she talked about it, as if it were her life’s biggest goal. 

Riza had stared confusedly when a few other girls sighed along with her. 

She didn’t get it.

“… Are you married, mommy?” 

Her mother spat onto the ground viciously, viscous liquid specked with inky ash. “Maybe. I don’t know. But you know what I know?” 

Riza cocked her head curiously. 

(She still didn’t get it.) 

“Your father can go to hell for all I care. I hope he does. I hope he burns there forever. It’s what he deserves.” 

Riza had seen her burn a man’s clothes, once. She’d poured something that looked like water over linen shirts and crumpled pants, then threw a lighter on it. Within seconds a whole blazing column had come to life. Flames licked at cloth mercilessly, devouring every inch, every thread until all that was left was a pile of black. As if there had never been anything to begin with. 

Perhaps that had been her father’s? But if her mother wanted him to - to _go to hell,_ which didn’t sound like a very nice place to her, then why’d she marry him to begin with? 

“You’re probably thinking, why’d I marry him to begin with, aren’t you?” Riza nodded slowly, cautiously. Her mother sighed and traded the smelly stick for a clear-looking liquid. It looked like water, but Riza was smart enough to know it wasn’t. (It was whiskey. Riza learnt this from the drunkards roaming the suburbian streets at night, hollering and cursing at the stars.) She took a gulp, another puff, tossed her handiwork to the side carelessly. “Hell if I know. Men change after marriage, or so I’ve been told. But they expect you to sit around and wait for them like their lap dog. Ha! Joke’s on him. Bastard. Left me alone with nothing but regret and a growing child.” 

“I’m sorry, mommy.” 

Her mother’s eyes rolled skywards and turned unfocused. 

“Men. Silly, helpless men. Always expecting us women to do everything. Wash their clothes, scrub the floor, clean the house. Make dinner, make love, then make the bed.” 

“… I can help,” Riza offered quietly. 

Her mother’s eyes landed back on her. She was silent for a long, hard moment. 

Riza squirmed uncomfortably. She felt like she was at the doctor’s, being examined for an illness. Then her mother’s mouth opened again, stained teeth gleaming in the dim afternoon light. 

“You already do. You’re a smart one. A clever girl.” 

Riza perked up just a little, straightening in her seat. She liked hearing those things. Smart, clever. It made her feel good. Smart, clever. Those were good things to be. With those things she could make something out of herself, perhaps. 

Something more than a girl. 

“Pity you’re a girl. Can’t do much about that,” her mother sighed plaintively. Riza frowned. Another swig of the strange-smelling liquid that reeked of hospital antiseptics and cleaning agents. Maybe it was supposed to cleanse her mother’s body somehow? Renew it, refresh it so she wouldn’t be sad anymore? (It never seemed to work, though. She’d be dazed for a bit, oddly cheery, then fall asleep murmuring unintelligible things. Then the cycle would repeat itself the next day, again and again. Like a broken recorder playing the same song on repeat.) “Did you know, Riza? The queen is the most powerful piece on the chessboard.” 

Riza nodded. That she knew. She’d watch people play on the streets sometimes, decked in their thick coats and furry hats as they sat across each other squinting at a tiled board with little wooden pieces. The one with the crown - Riza guessed that was the queen - was most fascinating to watch. On that board, that pretty little board with sixty-four squares, the crowned piece was capable of moving just about anywhere. She could go anywhere she wanted without restraint, do anything she wanted. She was free to live as she wished.

(Surely that sort of freedom must’ve meant that she was powerful. Independent.) 

“Clever girl,” her mother praised. “But you see, here’s the thing about the queen. She’s a woman. So what does she do?” 

Riza frowned. “She can… move anywhere she wants?” 

“If only,” she scoffed. “The queen exists to protect the other men on the board. The king, the useless son of a bitch who can’t do anything except run away with his tail in between his legs. Can’t even save his own sorry ass. The queen protects him. Sacrifices herself if need be.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s how the game works. How the world works. Shitty place to be in.” 

“But shouldn’t you protect the queen, if it’s the most powerful piece on the chessboard?” 

“Clever girl.” Third time in a row. The words sounded hollow to her, now. Empty praises floating around her head like dust. “Dunno. Like I said, it’s how things work. Not much we can do about that.” 

Riza pursed her lips and nodded. Keeping her head lowered, Riza stared long and hard at the tiles on the floor until it started to resemble a chessboard, more and more. Black, white, black, white. Ebony and ivory. Recurring patterns. Predictable movements. Riza imagined the queen moving around freely, eating other pieces like a scavenger on a wild hunt. Diagonal, vertical, horizontal. Right, then left, all the way until there was nothing left. 

Riza smiled to herself.

In that tiny, squarish world Riza could change the outcome, do something about it depending on where she moved. Then the queen and king would be the last ones standing. In her mind, the king would thank the queen for her services and let her have the glory; the glorious, wondrous applause she deserved. 

(The king loved his queen. The king didn’t want to lose her. The king wouldn’t sacrifice her like she was a mere pawn. No, of course he wouldn’t. She was the most valuable piece on the board.)

Chess was fun, Riza thought. Great fun. 

“Come here, Riza.” Riza blinked. She turned to look at the clock. Fifteen-hundred hours. She hadn’t even realised an hour had passed. Lunchtime had passed, too. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it and shuffled over to her mother’s side. Her mother held a dress up to her chest, two sizes too big for her petite, bony frame. Riza fidgeted slightly as the hem grazed her kneecaps like unmowed grass. Scratchy, itchy. “What do you think?” 

“It’s lovely, mother.” 

Tomorrow the kids at school would make fun of her again, for sure. ( _Where’d you get that dress from, Hawkeye? The garbage truck? Haven’t you got any money to get some new clothes? Bet ya don’t! You don’t even have a daddy._ ) But for now Riza was content to imagine that she was in a pretty little dress, brand-new and squeaky-clean — like one of the fabled queens she’d read about in her favourite fairy tales. 

In her mind, Riza could reign as queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my extremely self-indulgent AU, an amalgamation of my two current hyper fixations and, well, free therapy for me 😆 After binge-watching The Queen's Gambit over two days, this idea came to be because (1) the similarities in their names... Beth & Riza or, y'know, her other persona in the manga (2) TRAUMAAAAA!!! 
> 
> Special shoutout to @RainFlame for being a wonderful beta, a wonderful friend, and an all around wonderful person. I LOVE YOU <3 
> 
> You don't need to have watched The Queen's Gambit to understand what's going on (although I highly recommend it - it's one of the best shows I've watched in awhile), but as in the show, there will be quite a number of references to heavy themes like drug/alcohol abuse and period-typical sexism. There will also be departures from TQG itself to make it more 'canon' - if anyone has any suggestions on whether to contextualise this in Amestris or 1960s Americas, as well as who should play which character feel free to do so! Feedback is always, always welcome :) 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought! Or come say hi on Tumblr if you're there, I'm @firewoodfigs :) till then, stay safe and take care! I hope 2021 is off to a great start for everyone thus far, and I'll see you very soon in the next chapter (which will be much longer, this is just a prologue because I'm old-fashioned and incapable of self-restraint) 💙 
> 
> (I am also on chess.com under the same moniker LOLOL)


	2. Chapter 2

♕

**one.**

“Listen to me, Alice. It can’t be any good for Elizabeth if you keep living like this -” 

“And why not?” her mother screams. Riza watches the scene unfurl from the corner of the fireplace, cowering a little at her mother’s livid expression. Her face is red and her fists are quaking, like she’s ready to attack at any given moment. “Riza’s perfectly happy where she is. She wants to be with me.” 

_ Happy. _ It’s a word that is so foreign, so unheard of as to be incomprehensible. Riza has never seen her mother happy before, except when she gobbles up those pills like candy or when she drinks that strange, clear liquid like water. 

(Riza  _ is  _ happy with her mother, though. She knows this to be an absolute truth, even though their version of happiness looks nothing like the fairytale depictions of sunshine and rainbows.) 

Riza frowns as she watches the heated exchange take place at the door. She’s frightened by this man, by whatever he’s trying to do. It doesn’t sound good to her. 

“You should return to the asylum.” 

“Make me,” her mother snarls. “You pry Riza out of my hands, I’ll kill you.” 

Riza stiffens at the threat. 

_ Kill.  _ It’s a bad thing, isn’t it? The bad guys always kill the good ones and leave their children hanging. But in other stories, the good guys kill the bad guys, too, for justice’s sake. 

The door slams. Riza shrinks into herself, watching the flame’s shadows dance across the wooden floors almost maliciously, curling around her mother’s hunched figure like it’s trying to suffocate her. 

“Mommy?” 

A weary sigh, a broken whimper, like her mother is on the verge of tears. 

“Are you happy with me here?” 

Riza nods without hesitation. “Of course, Mommy.” 

“Good. That’s good…” 

“Mommy?” 

Her mother doesn’t speak. Instead she begins rummaging through a drawer wordlessly, ignoring Riza as she does so. A small container falls out of her pocket and clatters to the ground. 

Riza inches forward slowly and picks it up. The label reads, in her mother’s cursive scrawl,  _ eat me.  _

Curious, Riza unscrews the lid and peers inside the container. 

The pills are green. Bright, minty green. It reminds Riza of the chocolate mint chip ice cream that she’s seen on the street. (She’s never tried it herself, but the other kids seem to like it a lot. Their faces are always quivering with excitement whenever the ice cream man comes by with his loud pink truck.) 

A loud thud. Riza jolts upright, inspecting the source of the sound. Another thud, and more. Lots and lots of books, strewn all over the ground like confetti. The noises frighten Riza a little, but she forces herself to remain calm as her mother continues her insistent, aggressive rifling. 

Bending over, Riza picks up a large, red book with gold letters embossed in the centre. She swipes at the dust and traces the letters with a small, bony finger and lets out a small smile.  _ Alice Grumman.  _ It’s her mother’s name. Above it, the letters read:  _ Monomial representations and symmetric presentations.  _

Riza stares at the title for a long, hard moment, trying to make sense out of it. They’re big words. Big, puzzling words that she’s never come across. Then she frowns. She doesn’t like not knowing things. Her mother always says she’s a clever girl, so surely she must know this. 

She has to. 

Suddenly the entire room brightens, bathed in an eerie, orange glow. Riza starts and turns to the fireplace. In the dead, still silence, the fire crackles loudly, almost roaring as it devours pieces of yellowed, crumpled parchment relentlessly. 

Transfixed and confused, Riza gasps quietly as her mother begins to dump the books inside like they’re firewood. 

“Mommy?” she calls again. 

Her voice doesn’t reach her. Nothing seems to. It’s like she’s stuck in a trance. Riza turns her gaze to the burgeoning fire, growing bigger and bigger until it’s almost too much for the fireplace to contain it. 

“Good. That’s good… You’re a good girl, Riza.” 

Riza smiles and clutches her mother’s book close to her heart. 

**~x~**

Riza Hawkeye is eight when her mother dies. 

_ Bang.  _ Just like that, and her mother’s gone — skull cracked open, brain bleeding profusely alongside the uncontainable sorrow within. It had all happened so fast. Riza didn’t even have time to blink, much less scream. 

(There had been a lot of screaming, just moments prior. She’d driven to a man’s home, screamed at him angrily as her arms flailed around like she was searching for something to cling onto. Then her mother had returned to the car, alone, weeping and muttering to herself as she stepped harder on the pedal. Harder, until the car rushed forward, faster and faster -  _ mommy, what are you doing? Mother! -  _ until _ — _

_ Bang.  _

A loud crash. More screaming. More blood, spilling like her mother’s favourite wine.)

Riza blinks. 

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” comes an unfamiliar voice from beside her. Riza opens her eyes, and tries to make sense of her surroundings. White. Clean, pale white everywhere, whiter than the tiles of a chessboard — “We were starting to think that you’d never come to. It’s honestly a miracle you’re even alive.” 

“Wh… where am I?” Riza croaks, and frowns. It feels like she hasn't had any water to drink for ages. She tilts her chin upwards to stare at the stranger straight in the face. Then she asks, “Where’s my mother?” 

It is his turn to frown. He looks sad, like her mother did in the car, before — 

“She’s… she’s dead, my dear. I’m sorry. We tried our best, but there was nothing we could do.” 

_ Dead?  _

_ “ _ Yes, child. I’m sorry. Do you,” the doctor, an old man with grey hair and gold-rimmed glasses gestures towards her head, “Understand?” 

Riza nods hesitantly. Where was her mother, then? Where did dead people go? Her mother spoke of hell, a lot. A burning pyre where flames would lap at skin and bone tirelessly like a parched dog, where flesh and tongue would be left with unimaginable pain and unquenchable thirst. Damnation their only companion. A place reserved for the worst of the worst. 

Wasn’t that where her father was supposed to go? 

Not her. 

Not mommy. No, no,  _ no _ — 

“Good. The orphanage will send someone to come pick you up in a few days.” Another smile, a sad smile like the one her mother always wore. “Again, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to rest first.” 

The doctor shakes his head and leaves. Leaves her alone, on a cot that’s a tad too small for her shrivelled body, with nothing but a flickering lamp, a threadbare blanket and her shadow. 

Her lone shadow, her only friend. 

Riza closes her eyes and sees red. 

(Wilting roses. Rotten apples. Fallen leaves. 

A bottle of wine. A red cigar. 

A tattered dress, the last thing her mother had been wearing — 

_ darling, how I long  _

_ to be loved, to be seen,  _

_ to be your queen,  _

_ spinning around in a red dress — _

A pool of blood.)

**~x~**

“I’m sorry for your loss, child.” 

Riza shrugs. Truthfully she’s heard so many apologies over the past few days that they’re all empty, all meaningless by now. It’s a little strange, how everyone’s automatic response is to say sorry, when it’s not even their fault to begin with. 

(It’s hers, and hers alone.) 

Riza watches the houses, the unmowed lawns and overgrown gardens whizz past in a blur, and tenses in the backseat. The thought of being in a car again unnerves her. She can’t help but rake her nails against the seat, even if it earns her a disapproving look from the matron. 

“Well,” the lady begins, turning around to give Riza a brief, pitiful glance. “The orphanage is a good place for girls like yourself to grow in. Mrs. Murray is a long-time friend of mine, and she’ll make sure you’re in a good stead.” 

Riza offers a tiny, imperceptible nod. 

“Good. Be a good girl for them, will you?” 

_ (You’re a good girl, Riza.)  _

Riza blinks away the tears that are threatening to spill. She nods again. 

“Excellent. Be a good girl, and I’m sure you’ll see your mother someday in heaven.” 

Riza straightens in the backseat, overcome with curiosity and bewilderment. Heaven. That was a new thing to her. Her mother had never spoken of it before. What was heaven like? Would it make her mother happy? 

And would she get to see her mother again? 

“Yes, my dear. I’m sure you will. Be a dear, and you will.” 

Riza blushes and looks away, embarrassed. She hadn’t realised that she’d spoken her last question out. 

“Don’t worry, hm? I know the director. Helen Murray. A lovely lady, that one.” 

Riza nods again and leans back into the seat. 

The setting sun meets her through the window, an array of orange and yellow painting her pasty arms in a soft, golden glow. 

Riza squeezes her eyes shut as her stomach does these wild, uncontrollable flips that makes her feel like throwing up and passing out at the same time. She thinks of her mother, stepping on the pedal as she cried and muttered unintelligible things to herself. 

(Riza longs for nothing more than to see her mother again. She wants to give her a hug, take her pain away and comfort her during those lonely nights that she’d spent weeping in her room when she thought Riza was asleep. She wants her mother to be well. To be safe, to be happy in heaven.)

The sun engulfs her whole, and Riza trembles. 

Heaven must be a better place than her old home. 

It has to be. 

**~x~**

The first few days at the Methuen Home are marked by an indigestible mix of loss and loneliness. The hours are achingly tense, almost immeasurable and impossible to believe, like a dream gone wrong. 

Or at least, Riza wishes it’s one. 

Each day she gets up and faces the same reality that her mother is dead. She is no longer around, at home, but in a place where Riza can’t reach through a bus or a train or those noisy, terrifying machines that whizz in the sky and leave a trail of neat, white clouds behind them. 

Desperate to connect past and present, Riza scrambles almost desperately for little mementos and patterns wherever she goes, tangible reminders of her mother’s short-lived life. (It’s the only thing she has left, after Mrs. Murray burnt her mother’s apparently disagreeable dresses.) Wilting roses in the poorly-maintained garden. Rotting apples in the garbage, dumped there by children who hated fruits as much as they hated the orphanage. Leaves falling on her bandaged hands as the autumn wind grazes her bruised cheek. 

_ (Why do leaves fall, mommy?  _

_ Because they’re living things, Riza. That means they have to die someday.) _

“Hey!” A raven-haired girl chirps from beside her on the third day. Startled, Riza closes her palm and crumples the crisp maple leaf that had kept her company for the past hour or so. “You new here? What’s your name?” 

Riza stares at her, bewildered. 

“Well?”

She blinks. Words fall clumsily from her chapped, purple lips, like the leaves from earlier. 

“I… I’m Riza.” 

The girl chuckles before plopping down on the grass. “Nice name. I’m Rebecca,” she says. Then she lays down and stretches like a cat, black tresses splayed all over the untrimmed grass as her pudgy hands reach for the sky. 

“Your momma dead?” 

Riza wants to scream, to run away. The words  _ momma  _ and  _ dead  _ are so agonising to hear as to be unbearable. She offers a quiet nod and bunches up a few weeds, as if they could anchor her to the earth. 

“Sorry, man. That’s rough,” Rebecca offers a sympathetic nod, before turning back to watch the clouds drift by, a seemingly relaxed smile on her pretty face — as if the topic of death was as casual as the weather. “My parents died too, a long time ago. It gets boring sometimes, huh? Being alone?” 

“I’m fine being alone,” Riza whispers. 

Discreetly, she taps at her nose and hopes it hasn’t grown longer. 

“Well, I’m not,” the girl declares, somewhat obnoxiously. “I’m Rebecca. Nice to meet you! We can be friends, if you’d like.” 

_ Friend.  _ The word sounds so foreign to her, like a faraway dream. 

(Riza had a friend once, in kindergarten. Long before the other kids came and started taunting her for her tattered clothes and grimy, mud-caked nails. It’d been so long ago that Riza couldn’t even recall her name. It was nice, though. Having someone to talk to, walk to school and climb trees and visit the playground with. Maybe even play chess with. That’d be nice, Riza thought. Having a friend meant she wouldn’t be alone any longer.)

Riza nods. 

“Okay.” 

The girl - Rebecca, Riza reminds herself, committing her name to memory this time - grins brightly, pulls her up from her spot under the large oak tree. Then Rebecca pulls her towards the sun, and for a moment all Riza sees is yellow. Bright, indefatigable yellow, curling around them in all its glory like a warm embrace. 

Riza falls asleep that night and dreams of a field of Black-eyed Susans. 

(Black-eyed Mr. Knighty. Black-eyed Rebecca.) 

**~x~**

The two girls quickly become inseparable, even though Rebecca is everything that Riza is not. 

Rebecca is loud and rambunctious, the centre of attention everywhere she goes. She is stunningly pretty, with doe-like eyes framed by thick, dark lashes; all luscious curves and glossy curls that tumbles down to her waist like a graceful stream. She is witty, funny and charming. People gravitate towards her like ants scrambling towards a pool of golden honey, whereas people either run away from Riza like she’s the plague or mock her for her ugly face and scrawny limbs. For being a nerd, a teacher’s pet. 

For being a clever girl.

(It’s not her fault, Riza thinks, that all of her classes are so… so easy. So ridiculously easy as to be boring. At eight years old, she’s enrolled in classes with the other second-graders; forced to learn basic multiplication tables and long division. All things she’s already learnt as a toddler. Absurd, really, how algebra is even considered advanced stuff. What about binomials and logarithms? Where are they?) 

But Rebecca doesn’t do any of those things. For some strange reason, she is fiercely protective of her, maybe even overwhelmingly so. When she discovers that the girls in her grade are making fun of her, Rebecca yells something crass - something that Riza, prim and proper Riza, would have never yelled before her mother died - and threatens them all with a quaking fist. 

The girls scurry away like frightened mice. 

“Next time, if anyone says shit like that to you, you tell me, okay?” 

Riza stares, shell-shocked. (It is shocking for Riza, because truthfully,  _ truthfully,  _ she hadn’t been too bothered by the other girls. She doesn’t know why it elicits such an aggressive reaction from Rebecca. Then again, Rebecca tends to take Riza back by surprise a lot, though only in the best ways possible.) 

“Well?” Rebecca taps her foot impatiently, expectantly. Her hands are still clenched into fists, as if ready to attack at any given moment. 

Riza nods, still frozen in bewilderment. 

“Good. I’ve got your back, and you got mine, yeah? That’s what friends are for.” 

_ Friends.  _

Riza smiles, and nods again.

Rebecca grins proudly and drags her towards the refectory. They have lunch together, again. (They have been having lunch together for nearly five days in a row, now.) An assortment of stale bread and cold porridge, a bottle of milk half-warm and a bowl of diluted soup with mushy peas and beans to go with. 

Rebecca complains that the food is crap, utter crap. Bullshit for growing children. 

Riza simply shrugs and continues eating, content to listen to Rebecca’s prattling about stupid boys and crappy food. She doesn’t mind too much, to be honest. 

None of those things have ever tasted quite so good before.

**~x~**

The girls are ushered towards Mr. Still’s counter like sheep as soon as the bell resounds to signal the end of lunch. A stern voice yells at them to cease their mindless chatter, to get into an orderly line. 

They do. 

Obedience is the name of the game, Riza quickly learns. If you want to be adopted, then be a good girl. Unless you want to stay here forever. 

(It’s strange, Riza thinks. The idea of staying here forever doesn’t bother her all that much, to be honest — as long as Rebecca is around to keep her company. But maybe Rebecca would be gone too, eventually. Just the other day, a man and a woman had come to pick one of the girls up, and driven off shortly after in a shiny black car — presumably towards what would be a loving, doting home filled with bedtime stories and teddy bears and a beautiful garden.) 

Riza frowns. She runs over the possibilities, calculates the probability of each one occurring in her head. What if one of them gets adopted? What if Rebecca gets adopted, and she doesn’t - which is highly likely, considering how plain and boring she is? 

Would she be left here all alone by herself, then? Again?

“Penny for your thoughts, Riza?” Rebecca whispers, her voice like an anchor that tethers her to reality. Riza blinks. (No, she’s not alone. Rebecca is right here. Right in front of her. She has a friend, now.) “You good?” 

Riza nods. She cranes her neck towards the shrinking line, eyeing the small little cups that are being dispensed at the counter with grave suspicion. “What are those?” 

“... Vitamins,” Rebecca mutters. Riza has to strain her ears to hear what she’s saying, which is a rare occurrence wherever Rebecca is involved. She’s one of those people you hear from a mile away before even seeing them. “You know, because the shitty food they give us doesn’t have any.” 

Riza manages a weak chuckle. As much as she appreciates the attempt at levity, the hesitation in Rebecca’s tone doesn’t go undetected. 

“I see.” 

Softer now, just the softest of murmurs, like she’s revealing an important secret. “The green ones work better if you take them at night.” 

How, Riza wants to ask, but doesn’t get the chance to. It’s Rebecca’s turn. She downs the pills unflinchingly, just like how her mother used to down whatever was in those tiny little shot glasses. Then she turns around, winking at Riza before a teacher drags her off to her next class. 

“Your turn, Hawkeye.” 

“What are those?” Riza asks again. 

“Vitamins. The brown one’s for bodybuilding. The other’s to even your disposition.”

She eyes the oblong pills in the tiny paper cup warily. One of them is half-brown, half-orange, and the other is a pretty turquoise - which, as Mr. Still says, is to  _ even her disposition.  _ Riza knows what that word means. Her mother always said she had a good disposition. Mature, for her age. Precocious. 

So what was there to even out?

“Hurry, Hawkeye. I haven’t got all day.” 

Under Mr Still’s watchful eye, Rebecca’s earlier advice quickly becomes moot. Riza gulps and chugs the pills - both of them, for nutrition and growth and a sweet temperament that will hopefully get her adopted - and places the empty cup back on the counter. 

“Next.” 

Riza turns around and makes a face at the bitter, metallic aftertaste.

**~x~**

It doesn’t take long for the pills to take effect. 

At first Riza chalks it up to sleepiness, or the onset of a sudden flu, but she falters with every step. Her body feels limp, like a weary rag; muscles and joints loose and disconnected. Soon enough she’s stumbling. The world around her blurs with every step, stairs blending into walls like a vignette painting. It takes every ounce of energy to keep walking, to not trip over nothing, to not pass out on the hallways.

Riza shakes her head and trudges on wearily. 

“Shit, are you okay?” Riza frowns, clinging onto the wooden bannister for dear life. Was that Rebecca? Or was her mind playing tricks on her again? It doesn’t make sense. The lines are supposed to be straight, not wavy. It defies all logic, every single law of geometry — “Damn. Told you to save the green pills for night time, didn’t I?” 

Riza doesn’t remember what happens afterwards. Perhaps she’d offered a vague nod, a muffled yes. All she remembers is waking up to the sound of rain and Rebecca’s relieved smile. 

“Next time, just keep the green one in your mouth first. Don’t swallow.” 

**~x~**

Riza struggles to not swallow the pills, at first. Obedience is so deeply ingrained with her - stay out of trouble, be good - that defiance feels like a complete absurdity. Crazy. 

( _ Listen to me, Alice. _ )

Still, Riza takes Rebecca’s instructions to heart. The first few times are hard, but eventually there comes a day where Riza succeeds in her secret mission. On a dreary afternoon when they’re called to queue at the counter for their daily intake of vitamins, Riza swallows the orange pill first, then hides the green one discreetly under her tongue. 

Mr Stills observes the movement of her throat like a predator watching its prey, then calls upon his next victim. 

“Next.” 

Once she’s a relatively safe distance away, Riza slips the green pill out of her tongue and tucks it securely in her pocket. She passes by Rebecca in the hallway, who gives her the briefest flash of a proud, knowing smile. 

Riza smiles back and heads off to her subsequent lessons. Arithmetic, reading, science, health class. They’re all equally boring, save for health class, which is just… perplexing. It’s the one class that Riza has with the seniors, including Rebecca, but she doesn’t understand why the girls are always tittering and giggling at every word that comes out of Mr. Ralph’s crooked teeth. Weren’t the older girls supposed to be more… composed? Controlled? 

Riza manages to maintain her composure, at least until Mr. Ralph gets to explaining the different parts of the female anatomy, and how it’s different from what males have. 

Utterly mortified, Riza flushes deeply, biting on her lower lip and clutching at the metal legs of her old, dusty table to suppress a shudder. There is nothing more that she wants at the moment, Riza thinks, for the earth to swallow her whole. 

Rebecca simply cackles maniacally. “You poor child. A little innocent, aren’t you?” 

Riza flushes deeper and stares at the tiled floor as beads of sweat gather around the nape of her neck. She thinks about chess, to drown Mr. Ralph’s voice and the girls’ incessant giggling that occasionally spirals into hysterics. 

Time passes by in an agonisingly slow fashion, like that. By the time they’re done with health class, everyone is so exhausted, so famished from laughing and groaning and squealing so much, that barely anyone vocalises their disgust at the miserable dinner. 

Beans, again. Beans and mushy peas, brown rice and a small piece of baked fish that is as plain and unseasoned as it looks.

Riza plays with her beans reluctantly, doing her level best to avoid Mrs. Murray’s hawk-like scrutiny. Rebecca imitates the sound of throwing up when Mrs. Murray turns her attention to a girl who’s crying over — well, spilt milk, literally. Ever the opportunist, she chucks their leftovers into the trash can without remorse and winks at Riza — a signal to run for their lives. They are quick to vanish from sight, escaping into the bathroom to perform their ablutions and brush their teeth, all the while unaccompanied by a functioning heater. 

Shivering, Riza slips into her nightgown and tucks into bed with Mr. Knighty beside her. 

In the dim, candlelit room, Rebecca turns over and gives her a small, reassuring smile. 

“Night, Riza.” 

“Goodnight, Rebecca.” 

Rebecca draws the blanket up to her neck and releases her thick, glorious curls from its ponytail. She drifts off to sleep within seconds, as do the other girls, leaving Riza alone with the green pill that she’d kept safely hidden at the bottom of her rinse cup like a coveted treasure in the bathroom. 

Riza unscrews the lid of her cup and eyes the brightly-coloured capsule with wary suspicion. The whole thing feels almost eerily familiar, like she’d seen the pills somewhere before. Somewhere in her old, dilapidated hut of a home. It must’ve been her mother’s. Her mother was always so ill, so deathly pale. 

Maybe the doctor had prescribed her with these same vitamins, then. To even her disposition. (Except it hadn't worked. It never did. Mother always cried herself to sleep. Mother was crying, before she got into that car crash.) 

Riza stares at it for another contemplative second, then brings the pill up to her lips. She swallows it dry and keeps her eyes fixed on the ceiling. For a moment the curtains’ shadows seemed to be whirling, doing a little unwitting dance of its own as the world quivered on its axis, but Riza clutches Mr. Knighty close to her heart like it’s a protective talisman and waits for the dizziness to subside. 

Gradually the world stills. Shadows cease their dancing. No more childish snoring. All Riza hears is the sound of distant thunder and a light drizzle, and for a moment she sees her mother’s waifish silhouette haunting the window panes, her favourite red dress fluttering in the evening wind like a rose. 

When Riza blinks again, the ceiling is no longer moving. 

Riza smiles. It feels nice. She feels strangely calm, almost peaceful for the first time since her mother’s passing. A sort of tranquility that even her blossoming friendship with Rebecca hadn’t been able to bring, especially in light of their inevitable parting. 

Riza falls asleep eventually, and dreams of her mother. 

**~x~**

“I hear they’re transferring you to another class, eh?” Rebecca grins wildly as she spears into a cold, hard slice of pizza topped with olives and mozzarella. A rare treat for them, Mrs. Murray says. “Think you’ll be in mine?” 

“Maybe,” Riza murmurs, offering Rebecca a small smile. 

That’ll be nice, Riza thinks. Rebecca is about three years older than she is, but if the administrative office is willing to accept her homeroom teacher’s request she might just be able to spend more time during the day with her best friend. (It might even help with her growing restlessness. These days her classes have been increasingly dreary to the point of being vexing. Even her teachers are starting to be frustrated, almost disgusted with how fast she finishes all their assignments, as if she’d done something to personally snub them.) 

“Better be. Or you know I have my ways.” 

Riza’s smile widens, just a little. 

“Let’s just wait and hope for the best.” 

As it turns out, there was no need for Rebecca to resort to violence. The application for a transfer succeeds without a hitch. Riza is almost excited to attend class the next morning with Rebecca by her side, and her day gets even better when the teacher assigns her to the seat beside Rebecca’s. It is a challenge to see whatever’s on the blackboard, but Riza doesn’t quite mind. She sits down without a single complaint, crosses her legs and fingers and hopes, again, for the best. 

Her hopes are quickly dashed. 

Ten minutes in, and Riza finds herself bored out of her wits.  She fiddles with her half-chewed pencil as the teacher drones on about basic algebra, about using mathematical models to solve rudimentary problem sums. 

Riza sighs quietly to herself as she struggles to contain the rising disappointment. It’s hard. She feels like she’s constantly craving for something… something more. Something to keep her occupied, something to challenge her. None of these do. The reading, the arithmetic — it is all so awfully basic that her mother would’ve no doubt scoffed at it and reprimanded Riza for wasting her time. Even the sudden pop quiz - which had elicited groans from every person in the room - is remarkably simple. Riza finishes it in ten minutes flat. She turns to Rebecca, who looks like she’s either struggling hard, or just on the verge of giving up and dozing off. 

Riza taps on the edge of her table softly. Rebecca straightens, seeming to rub the sleep out of her eye, and curses under her breath at the apparently complex equations staring before her. 

Smiling faintly, Riza cranes her neck upwards to stare at the pale, white clock on the wall. 

Twenty more minutes. 

Twenty more minutes of staring into space. 

How mundane, how terribly lacklustre! Things might’ve been different if her mother were still around. She might’ve been strict, occasionally demanding, but she at least ensured that Riza’s time was meaningfully occupied. There never was a dull day with her. Sometimes she’d bring Riza to explore the woods and explain the names and origins of different trees and flowers, or go bird-watching — one of her mother’s favourite pastimes.  _ People are always attracted to the unattainable _ , she used to say. Other days she would challenge Riza with exciting theorems and theories, maybe a conspiracy or two, teach her about atoms and compounds and molecular structures. A world of their own.

Riza smiles wistfully. 

Her mother  _ was _ always full of ideas, even when she was plagued by sorrow and all things bad in the world.

“Miss Hawkeye,” Mrs. Sayers clucks her tongue as she picks up Riza’s paper. Startled by the sudden intrusion, Riza sits upright and blinks owlishly. “Are you all done?” 

“Yes,” Riza whispers, keeping her head bowed to avoid Mrs. Sayers’ disapproving eye.  Most of her teachers are like that nowadays. It makes Riza wonder if she’s done something to - to not be a good girl, a clever girl. Had she done something wrong? Why were the teachers all so displeased with her for finishing her work fast? But what was wrong with that? Weren’t they always scolding the other girls for not handing in their homework on time?

Riza frowns quietly as her mind scrambles for an answer. She doesn’t like not knowing. It’s unnerving, being unable to tell the outcome. Quite unlike problem sums or ionic equations or — 

“Well,” Mrs. Sayers murmurs. Riza peeks out shyly from beneath her lashes, but Mrs. Sayers’ expression is unreadable, although she seems to be gawking, just a bit. Mrs. Sayers clears her throat and shakes her head, bronze hair framing her freckled, chubby cheeks in perfectly round ringlets. “Well. Since you’re done, why don’t you go clean the erasers, then? Down in the basement?” 

For a moment, Riza is too stunned to react. The basement. She’d heard bad things about the basement, like how she’d heard bad things about hell. It was a place reserved for punishment. For the bad girls who did naughty things. But Riza was a good girl, wasn’t she? 

Why was she being sent to the basement? 

Rebecca turns around with an inquiring, concerned frown on her face, and the injustice of the situation finally dawns upon her. Riza wants to retaliate. She wants to say no. To fight back, to refuse, tell them off for coming up with these terribly boring lessons. 

But Riza doesn’t have the guts to do any of these things. Instead she nods meekly in submission and rises from her seat. Mrs. Sayers tuts and walks away, admonishing the other girls who still have yet to finish their papers. 

“Fifteen more minutes!” 

Riza steps forward, collects the eraser and runs down the stairs, towards the basement — all the while blinking traitorous tears out of her eyes. 

**~x~**

The basement is every bit as unpleasant as Riza had imagined it to be. 

It is musty, damp. There is a certain dankness to it from being kept out from sunlight for an inordinate amount of time. Every step is punctuated by a cough, and Riza struggles to breathe as dust and dirt swarm around her, to suffocate her. 

It reminds her of her old home in the worst ways possible.

Riza suppresses the sudden urge to sob and continues her descent down the stairs, until she arrives at the basin. Old stains and murky waters decorate it in hues of gray, black. The mirrors above aren’t any cleaner — all mucky and grimy and speckled with fingerprints. 

Riza grimaces at the sight. It is exactly like her old bathroom, except it doesn’t reek of vomit here. Just dust. Plenty of dust. Riza stifles a sneeze in the crook of her elbow. She is about to clean the erasers when she hears a gruff cough, a chair squeaking against the ground — another presence. 

Riza turns around, afraid of what she’ll find. Light trickles towards her from an old, incandescent lamp hanging from the ceiling on a string, and Riza squints. 

She notices a figure — a large, burly figure, big enough as to be intimidating and bear-like, though it’s hard to make out his features in the dimly lit room. Judging from the mop and bucket left in the corner, Riza guesses he’s the janitor. Mr. Curtis, as the other teachers call him. He is seated on a chair, alone. His hands appear to be occupied. 

Curiosity piqued, Riza steps forward hesitantly, only to realise that it’s —

It’s a chessboard. 

Riza tiptoes closer to it, watching her own feet with guarded caution as excitement and dread fill her. Her mother had always warned her against talking to strangers, especially if they were men.

The man coughs again, seemingly lost in a world of his own. Riza inches towards him quietly and peers at the assortment of pieces on his board. It is disorganised, even though he’s sitting by himself. That must’ve meant that he was playing alone. 

Riza’s eyes widen, equal parts surprised and impressed. She hadn’t known that was possible. Riza had always thought that chess was a game that required an opponent, a challenge. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Riza starts, dropping the eraser onto the ground. She is too scared to speak. Instead she seizes up, standing like a soldier at attention, and stares deep into the man’s terrifying visage. His jaw is bold and squarish, like a rock cut and shaped to precision, thin lips surrounded by a thick, bushy moustache that reminds her of a lion’s mane. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” the deep baritone booms, again. The man’s brows are knitted into a deep frown, as if her mere presence is a personal affront. 

Riza wills herself to not squeak in fear. 

“I - yes. Mrs. Sayers asked me to clean the - um, the erasers.” 

The man leans forward almost predatorily. Riza gulps. The dim yellow light curls around his squarish jaw and wades into his stern, inky eyes. He makes no move to approach her, however. All she hears is a grunt, and then he’s back to his game and ignoring her existence altogether. 

Riza squats down gingerly to pick the erasers up and scurries back to the sink, where she’s supposed to be. She claps the two erasers together loudly to get the dust off. Harder, louder, until she’s almost sure she’s making a rather conspicuous din. 

Still, the man pays her no attention. 

Riza frowns, dusting dirt off her standard-issue pinafore. She turns around again discreetly and watches him from the corner of her eye, committing each movement carefully to memory. It’s hard to see the black pieces when they’re merging with the dark like that, but the white ones are at least discernible.

The twin towers move in straight lines, unlike the one with the slashed lemon on top which moves diagonally. The queen can move anywhere, but that Riza already knows. The tall one, with the cross on top, is probably the king, since he’s constantly retreating from the rest. Protect him at all costs, or so the rules say. (Or so her mother once told her.) The horse moves in strange ways. Unlike the rest, its movements seem almost… random. An unruly horse. 

Riza squints, trying to figure out the precise directions of its movements. Unable to get a good look, she moves closer towards the man once more, like a rook. Fear grips at her chest, battling with her overwhelming desire to learn the game, her insatiable curiosity. 

The man sighs loudly. Riza picks up on the annoyance in the man’s tone, his posture, and shrinks into herself. 

“Are you done yet?” 

“Y-yes, sir.” 

“Then  _ go _ ,” he half-yells. 

Terrified, and feeling very much like a bad girl, Riza nods meekly and runs out of the basement. She returns the erasers to Mrs. Sayers, and rushes to her next class with the other girls like a tightly-packed raft of ducks. Reading, history. Physical education - which, to Riza’s disdain, involved a choice between volleyball and netball. Riza hated both. She was not athletic, being made up of scrawny limbs and bones, and the ball generally seemed to favour her face more than it did her hands. 

“You’ve got to focus, Riza,” Rebecca whispers under her breath as she scores another point for the team. “Focus on the ball.” 

This, Riza has trouble doing. Her head had been in the clouds all day.

“I’ll try.” 

She ducks away from the next ball, and lets Rebecca strike it down to score another winning point. 

“Nice try.” 

Riza smiles, and heads towards the girls’ changing rooms. 

**~x~**

“What’s gotten into you today?” Rebecca asks while inspecting the little spots on her chin. “Damn it,” she curses. “Puberty sucks.” 

Riza admires her friend's reflection in the mirror, wishing her face was a little less homely. A little less plain. “You look fine.” 

“I wish,” Rebecca grumbles. She whirls around to look Riza straight in the eye, and persists with the inescapable interrogation. “Enough of me. What’s up?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’ve been acting all weird ever since you came back from the basement,” Rebecca points out. “Saw something strange, there? A ghost, or something?” 

Quite the opposite, Riza thinks. She’d come across something terrifying, but also something alluring. Beautiful. Untouchable.

“No, nothing of that sort. I’m fine.” 

“... Are you sure? Ball knock your head, or something?” 

Riza shakes her head, an amused smile playing on her lips for the briefest of seconds. “No.” 

Rebecca musses her cropped hair fondly. “Alright. If you say so.” 

“I did. Let’s go to bed,” Riza says. 

Rebecca nods and leads her back to the dorm, where some girls are already sound asleep and snoring lightly, thin, crepe-like blankets curling around their chins. They’re the last ones awake, apparently. 

Mr. Stills glares at them disapprovingly. 

Rebecca simply offers him an unabashed grin. He shakes his head, and blows the candle out once they’ve settled into their miserable excuse of a cot. 

“Night, Riza.” 

“Goodnight, Rebecca.” 

Soon enough Rebecca is out like a light, the only telltale sign that she’s alive a steady trickle of drool and a light snore. 

Riza lies still, very still. She squeezes her eyes shut, tugs at her blanket to no avail. The noises are too distracting for sleep to come easy. Twice a distant phone rang, and footsteps would pace towards the reception. Down the corridor. Distant, furtive murmuring. 

A part of her can’t help but wonder if they’re discussing her misbehaviour, if they’re coming up with new ways to punish her. If anyone still wants to adopt her.

Riza presses deeper into the hard mattress nervously, hard enough that the old springs are starting to creak and squeak. Slowly, she cracks her eyelids open and picks her stuffed animal, Mr. Knighty up from the side, where he always rests peacefully - even during daytime - and begins to stroke his collapsing ear. 

The murmuring continues, from somewhere faraway, though not far enough for her to be engulfed in silence. It reminds her of the frequent squabbles between her mother and strange men. 

It makes her anxious, makes her stomach contract and her ugly bangs damp with sweat. 

Riza puts Mr. Knighty down. She turns to her bedside drawer and reaches for her rinse cup like a beggar, with her sweaty palms and dirt-crusted nails. Almost imploringly, she unscrews the lid again to inspect her secret stash of pills. The stash has grown into a decent collection, by now. Seven in total. On the nights where they were given extra after a particularly rambunctious day, Riza would store them in her cup and not touch it during night-time. Just in case. (It was an old habit of hers that she never quite kicked. Riza used to keep candy and other tidbits in her pockets and other lesser-known cavities as well, just in case her mother ran out of money and the house ran out of food.) 

Riza takes a pill, then another. She clenches her fists around the edge of her frayed blanket and swallows them dry. 

Then Riza waits. 

These days the initial giddiness has been starting to wear off, and the pills are kinder on her mind, her stomach. She no longer felt like throwing up. Instead a strange calm would begin to spread through her body, starting in the pit of her belly, like she’s just had a bowl of her mother’s famous corn soup — a cheap but delightful dish she always made on Riza’s birthdays. Then it would rise up to her chest like smoke, carrying with it an ease that she hadn’t known she craved since birth. 

Gradually she feels her muscle loosening, tension leaving her body like waves receding at sea. Riza smiles. She brings Mr. Knighty close to her chest, eyelids fluttering shut. When she finally does sleep, it is quiet, dreamless. 

And the bad thoughts are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to @RainFlame for being the best beta EVER. I LOVE YOU and you are amazing, and thank you for always putting up with my absurd ideas and uncontrollable amount of WIPs ;v; <3 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for waiting! I've recently been trying to get into the habit of writing a decent amount of the next chapter before posting the current one, in hopes of achieving some semblance of consistency LOL. It's been hard, though. Work has been sucking a great deal of my time and energy and soul away, but I'm wading through this murky mud swamp known as adulthood one step at a time xD 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! This chapter was a pretty personal one to write, and - well, this project is basically looking to be my therapy fic for the next year or so :') I'm really looking forward to the catharsis that it'll bring, and I hope that I dealt with the complexities of Riza's childhood in a sensitive manner. Please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought! I am also on Tumblr as [@firewoodfigs](http://firewoodfigs.tumblr.com) if you'd like to say hi. :) 
> 
> Take care and stay safe, everyone, and I'll see you guys real soon! 💖


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